


I'll Be the One to Protect You From

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Heavy Angst, Infection, M/M, Zombie Apocalypse, yep sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to the trope where a warrior doesn’t realize his wounds until after battle, Cecil is aware of the exact moment when the zombie sinks its teeth into his arm.</p><p>Zombie apocalypse AU where Cecil gets bit by a zombie, and Carlos knows it's only a matter of time before he does what he has to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Contrary to the trope where a warrior doesn’t realize his wounds until after battle, Cecil is aware of the exact moment when the zombie sinks its teeth into his arm. He’s a second away from slicing the male zombie in front of him when stabbing pain shoots up his forearm. Cecil finishes his machete stroke (neatly separating zombie head from body) and whirls to attack the one hanging on to his arm. Once again he swings his machete through zombie neck and the headless body collapses to the ground – the head, though, its teeth firmly embedded in Cecil’s arm, stays put. Cecil grimaces and pries it off – _urgh_ – and drop-kicks the head as far away as he can.

The sun beats down hot on the hard earth and Cecil backs against the empty cistern of the farm they are raiding, pulse thudding in his throat. The arm on his wound is double crescents, deep and bleeding freely – sheathing his machete, he pulls out a penknife and rips a strip off the bottom of his shirt, bunching it up and gingerly pressing it to the bite. It is _extraordinarily_ painful and a whimper rises in his throat; he thinks of calling Carlos, who is in the house with Dana scavenging for food and water, but swallows down the hurt. He can manage this on his own.

But he makes the mistake of looking down at the bite again and it is throbbing painfully and _oh no, oh no no no_ this is bad, this is very bad, his legs are shaking and he has to lean against the cistern and it is searing hot but he barely feels it over the vast tingling like radio static in his hands and legs and head. One bite, one bite is all it takes for the virus to spread, and Cecil dabs vaguely at the wound. Maybe it won’t be that bad, he thinks. Water, disinfectant, he’ll clean it off before the virus has time to spread.

Deep down he knows this is false, but he is nothing if not an opportunist, and this is an _excellent_ time to practice his denial skills.

Carlos’ denial skills, however, remain woefully underdeveloped, and when Carlos and Dana come out of the with a canvas bag crammed with food and a full five-gallon bottle of water Cecil makes sure that the makeshift bandage is completely covering the bite.

“Hey,” says Carlos, hefting the bag higher on his back. Dana is beside him carrying the bottle, blue bandana wrapped across her forehead. “Zombie trouble?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” says Cecil with easy nonchalance. Carlos frowns, a slight crease in his strong forehead, but he nods and the three of them return to the Jeep. Erika is crouched in the front passenger seat and blinks slowly at them, glowing soft and black. Cecil, who has made sure to keep his arm pressed against his side, is very proud that Carlos has not noticed the bandage yet. He takes extra care to hide it as they get in the back seat and buckle up, although the bite is burning badly enough that his eyes are watering.

But then as Dana turns the keys in the ignition and starts the car, Carlos puts his hand open on the seat for Cecil as he always does, and Cecil without thinking puts his hand in Carlos’, and it’s the same arm with the bite and he has two seconds to realize his mistake before he tries to pull away but Carlos’ hand tightens on his like a vice, trapping him.

“Cecil,” says Carlos, quiet and serious, barely louder than the sound of their Jeep trundling over the dirt road. Cecil cannot bear to meet his eyes and looks down at his knees instead. “What happened to your arm?”

“I, uh, burnt it,” says Cecil. “On the cistern – you know how hot metal is.”

The bandage is thin, and the blood seeping through is unmistakably in the shape of a bite mark.

Cecil finally looks up at Carlos, and he looks _so_ sad and _so_ serious and Cecil’s heart aches woefully, and then –

“ _Cecil_ ,” says Carlos, and he looks and sounds like his heart is breaking, and Cecil can’t bear it so he looks back down at the dusty knees of his pants. Erika is humming slightly, and Carlos’ grip on his hand is painfully tight.

“It’s okay,” says Cecil, even though he knows it isn’t.

“What’s going on?” asks Dana, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Cecil?” When he doesn’t respond, she asks, “Carlos?”

Still clinging to Cecil’s hand, Carlos swallows and meets her eyes in the mirror. “A zombie bit Cecil,” he says hoarsely.

Dana’s hands clench on the steering wheel so that her knuckles turn ivory. “Jesus,” she says.

Erika twists around in xir seat, extends a long-taloned hand with an eye in the palm. Cecil obeys, lets xe take his arm and delicately pick off the bandage.

Carlos makes a choked noise at the ragged puncture wounds, at the dark clots of blood, and Cecil vaguely wonders why – he’s seen much, much worse, they all have. Still humming, Erika wraps xir fingers around the wound – _owwwww_ – and when xe releases it most of the blood is cleared, the wounds all but closed.

“That won’t help,” rasps Carlos. “We’ve tried angel healing before. It doesn’t work. They still turn.”

Everyone in the car knows that already. Erika blinks again, many jeweled eyes shuttering open and closed, before xe turns back to the front of the Jeep. Carlos immediately reclaims Cecil’s hand, like time is precious, and then it hits Cecil that it _is_ , that time is indeed running out for him, and he looks at Carlos and sees the look in Carlos’ eyes and knows that Carlos has come to that same conclusion as well…

It is over an hour back to Night Vale, and the entire drive is spent in almost complete silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite Erika mostly-healing the wound, Carlos still insists on cleaning it, very carefully, with cotton balls, antiseptic, and a bottle-cap’s worth of water. They are seated on the bed in their room, industrial flashlight propped to get the best angle of light on Cecil’s arm. Cecil watches Carlos’ face, dark and drawn in concentration, and all he can think is how much he loves Carlos. How _intense_ the feeling is, how it pools under his collarbone and threatens to spill up his throat and out his mouth.

Carlos finishes cleaning the wound with a small sigh, and carefully tapes a gauze pad down over it. The bite still hurts, although now it’s less of a sharp burn and more of a throbbing ache in time with Cecil’s pulse. “How are you feeling?” asks Carlos.

“Comparatively well,” says Cecil. “My arm hurts, obviously, but I can deal with it.” Curious, he raises a bit of energy over the skin of his forearm; it tingles unpleasantly in the puncture wounds and he lowers it regretfully. A bit of the static brushes off onto Carlos’ fingers, and he rubs his fingertips together thoughtfully.

“You don’t think…” says Carlos, “you don’t think… you could maybe use your energy to get rid of the virus? Burn it out or something?”

It’s an idea. Cecil considers it, raising crackling electricity in his fingers, closing his eyes to internalize himself as much as possible. But although he knows he is fully capable of searing himself from the inside out, he has no idea of how to only target the virus. “I don’t think I can,” he says. “I don’t know how I could find the virus.”

Carlos looks down at their hands, Cecil’s resting loose and open in both of Carlos’, and brushes his thumb over Cecil’s inner wrist, tracing the twisting pattern of veins. Cecil watches him, content to see the yellow sparks of light run over his perfect hair and glint softly on the planes of his handsome face, and somehow the simple touch of his thumb on Cecil’s wrist is immensely comforting. But soon Carlos’ expression changes from pensive to pained, and then his fingers close tightly around Cecil’s wrist and he bows his head and presses Cecil’s fingers to his lips, shoulders shaking.

“Oh, Carlos…” Cecil fits his other hand to the side of Carlos’ face, strokes his thumb over Carlos’ cheekbone. “It’ll be okay…”

Carlos lets out a long shuddering breath and raises his head. It’s hard to tell in the uncertain lighting, but his eyes look red. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, we’ll – we’ll figure something out.”

 

\--

 

Carlos calls a Very Important Meeting the next morning, gathering everyone together in the lab. Cecil is very much against this idea – what’s the fuss, it’s just one little bite after all. Everyone gets them sooner or later. But Carlos is insistent.

So now everyone is gathered in the lab, perched on stools in a loose semicircle – Dana, Mayor Pamela Winchell, Old Woman Josie and the three remaining angels, Cerulean Jack who is Cactus June’s third cousin, Miranda Blackwell, and Teddy Williams’ son Joel. They are all that is left in Night Vale – everyone else has either died, turned and then died, or left. It is easier, now, that there are no zombies in Night Vale, although they must drive out constantly for food and water and other supplies. It was hardest in the beginning, when Cecil recognized the zombies he was killing. He still has nightmares where he’s out scouting for food and turns a corner to face a zombie and it’s Tamika Flynn, or Earl Harlan, or once (one horrible sweaty shaking once) _Carlos_.

Now Cecil sits on a stool by the counter, heels propped on a metal rung and his fingers laced together between his knees, horribly conscious of the bandage on his arm and the burning wound beneath it. Carlos cleaned it again this morning – the holes had closed completely but the skin around them was red and inflamed and painfully taut to touch. It is almost enough to make Cecil wish he was one of the fifty-three percent of Night Vale’s former population born without the ability to feel pain. But then, he reflects, that would make unable to feel a great deal of other things too, and he doubts the trade-off is worth it.

Cecil does wish everyone would stop staring at him, though.

“Um, yes. So.” Carlos stands next to Cecil, one hand braced at the back of Cecil’s seat. “I don’t know how many of you already know this, but… yesterday Cecil was – was bit.”

He has to force the words out. Cecil knots his fingers together tighter and swallows hard.

“Bit by what?” demands Joel.

“What d’you _think_ ,” snaps Dana. “A zombie.”

“Oh.”

There is an uncomfortable silence. Cecil is uncomfortably aware of the pain in his arm, the unsteady sound of his breathing, the churning of saliva when he swallows.

“So then.” Pamela clears her throat, arms folded across her chest. “What do we do?”

“We look for a cure,” says Carlos.

“We’ve _been_ looking,” sighs Pamela. “We’ve been looking for months. Even the damn CDC can’t find one, what are we supposed to do?”

“Look harder. We’re in Night Vale. If there’s some weird alternative cure that exists, it’s going to be here.”

Carlos glares around at them, daring anyone to object further. It is Old Woman Josie who asks the next, inevitable question. “And if we don’t find a cure in time?”

Anger surges in Cecil towards her for asking that – not because of himself, but because Carlos now looks bleak and despairing as a granite cliff and Cecil has full rights to temporarily hate whoever puts that look on Carlos’ face.

It’s you, says a small voice that Cecil tries to ignore. He wouldn’t look like that if it weren’t for you.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” says Carlos, and it is clear from his voice that he does not want to discuss this anymore. And quite honestly, thinks Cecil, it’s not like any of them don’t know what will need to happen. The question is not what, or why, but _who._

 

\--

 

Carlos, in his kind and caring way, is very insistent that Cecil get some rest, “at least for now.” Cecil agrees under the condition that Carlos come to him every half hour, or as often as his experiments permit. Carlos agrees to this as well, and Cecil has to admit it is somewhat of a relief to retreat to the darkness of their bedroom. He prefers to observe, not be observed.

And so it is that he is lying on the bed, toes relaxed, ankles together, legs straight, left and wounded arm flat against his side, other hand cupping the back of his head, eyes closed, and breathing slow when something says, _look over here, listen._ And so he does.

It is Old Woman Josie, cornering Carlos just before he enters the lab. _You didn’t answer my question,_ she says.

Carlos – wonderful Carlos – is upset. _What would you like me to say?_ he says. _You already know the answer._

 _Yes, but you need to hear yourself say it._ Cecil has never met anyone as implacable as Old Woman Josie, and doubts he ever will.

 _I –_ says Carlos, and then _I can’t_ – says Carlos, and then _I don’t see how it makes any difference –_ says Carlos. Cecil pictures him running a frustrated hand through his thick waves of hair and experiences a moment of intense longing for the tactile sensation of combing through Carlos’ hair with his own fingers.

 _Answer the question,_ says Old Woman Josie.

 _What question?_ Carlos is deflecting.

_What will you do if you can’t cure Cecil in time?_

Cecil waits to hear what Carlos will say, his heart pounding. He can taste metal in the corners of his mouth, although that could be from using his abilities. The hand at the back of his head, he notices, is tightening its fingers in his hair.

 _I don’t know,_ says Carlos. _We have to talk about that together, him and me._

Old Woman Josie snorts in disgust, Cecil thinks.

 _Fine,_ she says. _Have it your way._ And she hobbles off.

The second she is gone Carlos slumps against the wall and covers his face with his hands.

Oh, Carlos, no, don’t be sad… Cecil thinks, but he cannot ignore the fact that inside himself is a great, echoing fear as well. He wants, desperately, to believe that he will be okay, and it is not that hard to pretend right now. It is all too easy imagine the day after this, and the next, and the next, and every day for hundreds of weeks, all the same as this one, with danger and peril, yes, but also with the knowledge that when he goes to sleep in Carlos’ arms he will wake up in them too. That is still going to happen, thinks Cecil fiercely. That is still going to happen!

He hopes.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Cecil loves Carlos very, very much, but he doesn’t always understand him.

“You’re not going, and that’s that,” says Carlos.

“But, _objectively_ , it makes sense,” says Cecil. “I’m the only one of us with my abilities, I’m almost as good a fighter as Dana, and besides –” he swallows “– I’ve got nothing to lose.”

Carlos’ expression when he says that makes Cecil curse himself for a fool. “Okay, first of all,” says Carlos, glaring and brittle, hands pressed to the side of Cecil’s face, “you are never allowed to say that again. You have time. _We_ have time, a couple months at the very least. And I’m going to find a cure, that’s the point of this whole damn excursion in the first place. Say you have nothing to lose again and I am locking you in this laboratory for the rest of the year.”

Cecil’s eyes sting with more than just his usual astigmatism and he turns his head to kiss Carlos’ palm. Carlos huffs out a half-angry, half-tired sigh. “And secondly,” he says, gentler,  “I’m not being objective about this at all. I want you safe, or as safe as you’ll be here. I can’t stand the thought of you going out and putting yourself at risk, not – not now.” His voice catches slightly.

They are sitting facing each other on their bed; Cecil looks down at his crossed legs, tries to understand Carlos’ feelings. It isn’t hard, mostly because he isn’t so far away from them himself.

“But I want you safe, too,” Cecil says. “And I can’t pretend you’re not safer when I’m fighting for you.”

“I’ll have Dana,” says Carlos. “And Jack. And two of the angels as well. Please, Cecil –” he takes Cecil’s hands in his, painfully earnest, and Cecil has to close his eyes because he can’t say no to Carlos like this. “Please. For me. Just stay here, this one time.”

Truth be told, Cecil despises these raids, or excursions, or whatever one wants to call them. The sunlight hurts his eyes and he burns like a lobster no matter what degree SPF he uses –if he can find sunscreen at all. If it weren’t for the fact that Carlos considered it his active duty as a scientist and citizen of Night Vale to go on them, Cecil would never leave Night Vale.

The idea of Carlos leaving _without_ him is just wrong.

But this once, Carlos wants him to stay, and Cecil realizes hollowly that this time he himself is the one who needs protecting…

Sighing, Cecil tips his head forward until his forehead is resting on Carlos’ shoulder. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay, if you want.”

“Thank you,” breathes Carlos, and his arms wrap warm around Cecil. Cecil settles into the embrace, Carlos wonderfully solid, his hands broad and anchoring, and tries not to think.

 

\--

 

The night before they leave, Cecil is in the kitchenette stirring tomato soup when Carlos interrupts him, snaking his arms around his waist and kissing Cecil’s back. “Come see something,” Carlos says.

Cecil gives the soup one final stir before setting the spoon down and following Carlos into the lab. They still call it that, even though only a quarter of the room is used for science anymore; the rest of the large front room has been converted into a communal hang-out space. Right now only Cerulean Jack and Miranda are there, playing cards.

“Over here.” Carlos takes Cecil’s hand pulls him over to the corner – pull being a figure of speech, of course, as Cecil is very curious to see what Carlos has for him. The thing is roughly the size of a laptop but bulkier, and as Cecil crouches to investigate it he puts his glasses on and –

Oh.

It’s a tape recorder, not unlike the one Cecil himself might have had many years ago. A lump rises in Cecil’s throat and he runs a finger over the scratched plastic experimentally, pushes a button down with a _click_.

“I thought, you know, it might help, being able to record,” says Carlos. “I’ve got a couple of cassettes, but I’m sure I can find more… It works, I tested. It’s battery powered.”

Cecil sits back on his heels. He is not sure what to say, other than that the day he closed  the doors of NVCR for the last time a black chunk was eaten out of his heart, and this might go halfway to filling it. “Thank you, Carlos.”

“I’ve always been good at picking gifts,” says Carlos lightly, smoothing Cecil’s hair, but as much as he tries to sound casual he doesn’t quite manage it.

Cradling the tape recorder to his chest, Cecil stands, turns to face Carlos. “Thank you again,” he says. “I – I don’t think I’ll use it right now, but I’ll go put it in our room, and maybe later…”

“Not a problem,” says Carlos. Cecil walks back to their room with Carlos following quietly behind, and Cecil sets the tape recorder down on the bed carefully, as if too much movement might jar its inner mechanisms out of place.

“I just remembered,” says Cecil, turning around, “the soup –”

But Carlos grabs Cecil’s face in his hands and pulls Cecil’s lips against his and Cecil sighs into the kiss because he has needed this, more than food or broadcasts or anything else that has taken up his attention today. Carlos kisses him, fierce and desperate, and then pulls back, eyes meeting Cecil’s.

“I just wanted to do that,” Carlos says.

 

\--

 

_I, um, yes – hello._

_Truth be told, it feels a little awkward doing this, because – well, because it’s been so long since my last broadcast, you see. And I don’t even really know who’s listening…_

_Carlos would say that there’s no one listening. And I guess that’s true, right now, as I’m recording these tapes. But who knows what will happen, hundreds of years into the future? You could have stumbled upon them, some lost, lonely traveler, these relics of a technology incomprehensible in its age. That’s…rather a hopeful view of the future, isn’t it? Seeing as it assumes someone will exist who is_ not _a zombie._

 _Oh, yeah, I should probably mention, future listener – it’s the zombie apocalypse right now._ Literally. _I mean, there are zombies_ everywhere! _Well, not so much now. We killed most of them, and since there’s no one new coming to Night Vale…_

 _What I mean, of course, is that since Night Vale is so conveniently surrounded by nothing but desert, which makes it very difficult for any zombies from elsewhere to wander in! And I must say, it makes such a change, being able to walk around outside without fear of being attacked and disemboweled by a herd of grisly former humans. I still remember those first few months, when no one could go outside and the Sheriff’s Secret Police couldn’t protect anyone because half of them were zombies as well._ That _was annoying._

_Anyway, the point is, there’s no zombies in Night Vale anymore. Which normally, is great! But as luck would have it, a… um… unforeseen circumstance has required our resident scientist Carlos – my Carlos – brave, stubborn, desperate Carlos – to leave Night Vale in order to find a zombie upon which he can perform studies and tests of a scientific nature. I think he is going to try and bring back a living one, despite having been told by multiple people that this was, and I quote, ‘a very bad idea.’ Carlos, on the other hand, insists that for the most accurate results he has to have a specimen in which the virus is actively spreading. I’m not sure what that means, but if Carlos says so, it must be true, right? Future listener, I – I very much hope that Carlos comes back alive. Alive, and unharmed._

_That’s really all there is for now. I don’t know when you are, future listener, whether the sun is high or a no-longer forbidden moon glows softly over your head. So I will simply say for now – goodbye._


	4. Chapter 4

The zombie Carlos, Cerulean Jack, Dana, Erika, and Erika bring back has been efficiently rendered  harmless, with lower jaw shattered and arms chopped at the elbow. They drag it into the lab with a nylon rope and tie between two faucets. When Cecil looks at its outside, he sees it is a female, anywhere between thirty to fifty years old. It is newly turned, only a few sores on its skin, hair nearly intact, eyes barely glazed over.

“Clean that up immediately, it’s a biohazard,” says Carlos, pointing to the blood and pus spattered on the floor. “Get the bleach. Anyone within ten feet of the zombie, I want armed and wearing rubber gloves and mask. If you have a wound that’s not healed yet, don’t even think about going near it.” Carlos is streaked with dust, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a sweaty undershirt, a bandanna tied around his forehead to hold back his unruly hair, and he has never looked more beautiful. “Hello, Cecil.”

“Hi.” Cecil rakes his eyes over Carlos, looking for any signs of damage – nothing obvious, as far as he can tell. Kicking in his extra sense reveals bruised knuckles and a scrape to the knee. That’s it.

The tense knot Cecil has been carrying in his chest for the last six days (and five hours) (and forty-two minutes) (and thirteen seconds) loosens, and only then can Cecil sweep forward and pull Carlos very very tight against him.

“Let me breathe,” chuckles Carlos, whose nose is smashed against Cecil’s collarbone, but his arms wrap around Cecil with reassuring pressure. Cecil shifts accordingly, and then they settle into the embrace and he decides he is never ever letting go.

“How’s the arm?” asks Carlos.

“Fine.”

“ _Cecil_.”

“All right. The infection’s gone down. It doesn’t hurt as much.”

“Good,”  and Carlos looks up at the same time Cecil looks down. The kiss is unthinking and like a glass of Merlot after a long, long day.

“Hey, lovebirds!” shouts Joel, and Cecil breaks away with a slight hiss, Carlos turning around. “You can smooch later. What are we supposed to be doing with this thing?”

Pulling free of Cecil, Carlos takes a fresh pair of gloves out of his pocket and pulls them on with a snap.  “Science,” he says.

 

\--

 

Cecil, even with his fairly comprehensive and imaginative grasp of the future, didn’t think that he would ever be _jealous_ of a zombie. Not in the traditional way, of course. But the fact remained that Carlos was spending far too much time taking bits of the zombie with tweezers and messing about with petri dishes and test tubes and syringes when he should be paying attention to Cecil. And Cecil tries his hardest to be patient, because he knows Carlos is working very, very hard on a cure, and it’s selfish of Cecil to demand his attention. But after a week, when Carlos keeps coming back to bed too exhausted to do more than cuddle and sleep, on one of Cecil’s bad days when the pain in his arm flares sharp enough to make Cecil grit his teeth and short-circuit nearby electronics, Cecil gives in.

“Don’t,” says Cecil, hooking a finger into Carlos’ belt loop as Carlos tries to rise from the bed. They had been taking their afternoon siesta; everyone does, it’s the easiest way to pass the heat of the day. “Carlos, please, stay with me, don’t go.”

Carlos sighs and sits back down; Cecil, curled on his side, looks up at him. “I have work to do,” says Carlos.

Cecil just gives Carlos his best pleading puppy eyes, and Carlos sighs. “Cecil…”

“Please.” Sitting up, Cecil wraps himself around Carlos, slipping his fingers under Carlos’ waistband, lips brushing his. “Please, I don’t have much time –”

“Don’t,” growls Carlos, hands tightening around Cecil’s wrists, but he kisses Cecil back. Cecil clings, works his way onto Carlos’ lap. He is full of aching tension and the need to be as close to Carlos as possible –

“Please,” begs Cecil, “please, Carlos, please,” and it’s working, he knows it is, Carlos’ hands press into the small of Cecil’s back with fierce urgency and his kisses are desperate.

“Cecil,” he breathes, and Cecil strokes the pads of his fingers along Carlos’ hipbones and whimpers into his mouth, and that does it. With a gasp Carlos crushes Cecil against him, their lips melded together, his fingers curled painfully in Cecil’s hair and _yes_ , this is what Cecil wanted, this is what he needs –

But Carlos breaks away, hands cupping Cecil’s face to keep him from following. Cecil stares at Carlos, lips wet and throat dry. “Carlos…”

“It’s okay,” says Carlos, and kisses him, maddeningly gentle. “But I’ve got –”

“ _Don’t_ say it –”

“– work to do.”

“You always say that,” growls Cecil.

“I know,” sighs Carlos, and he looks sad and tired. “But this is important, Cecil, you know it is. And I’m almost there.”

There are circles under his eyes, and suddenly Cecil sees himself as the whining, petulant child he is, keeping Carlos from his work for his own selfish desires. Self-disgust surges within him and Cecil straightens his back, looks Carlos in the eyes. “Okay,” he says. “I understand.”

“It’s not – it’s not that I don’t want to be with you,” apologizes Carlos. “But…”

“I know.” Cecil steels himself and kisses Carlos carefully. “I understand.”

 

\--

 

It has been weeks since Cecil had a full night’s sleep. It has been days since he has been able to sleep for more than a few hours straight. He has woken up now, wide awake, Carlos warm and snoring beside him. The first thing Cecil feels is pain in his arm, and he has to shut his eyes and breathe in through his nose to keep from making a sound.

Being careful not to disturb Carlos, Cecil slides out of bed and grabs the first pair of pants he finds (feeling his world through the texture of static, rather than seeing it) and pulls them on. They are Carlos’, baggy drawstring khakis that leave several inches of ankle bare. Cecil cinches them tight, grabs his glasses and pads out of the room, through the silent hallway and into the lab.

It is empty except for boxes and equipment and the zombie, still tethered between two sinks. Cecil hears a faint, steady gurgling, an almost benign sound. Putting his glasses on (the world sliding into focus) Cecil approaches cautiously, coming to a halt a safe distance away.

The zombie becomes aware of his presence, growling and straining against its bonds, arm-stumps reaching uselessly for Cecil. Sinking to the ground,  Cecil crosses his legs and stares up at the zombie. Just watching.

It continues its futile efforts towards him, and Cecil makes a point of not thinking, not analyzing or rationalizing, just observing. Familiarizing himself with the throaty choking sounds it makes, the jerky half-lunges of its movement, its locked knees and unblinking eyes. And then he closes his own eyes and watches with his sixth sense, and the zombie is a horrible greasy filthy chunk among the clean plastic of the lab. Cecil swallows hard and opens his eyes, staring at the zombie with revulsion.

That’s going to be you _,_ his internal voice says. How much time do you have left?

Shut up, thinks Cecil.

It’s been almost four weeks since you were bitten. That means you have six weeks left at the most, four at the least.

I don’t want to hear.

Of course, at first the symptoms won’t be much. You’ll move stiffer, think slower. Your hearing will be impaired.

 _Stop_ it.

It won’t be until later that you’ll start craving meat –

Cecil surges to his feet, heart hammering angrily. The zombie tilts its head and moans guttural, light reflecting off its blank eyes accusingly.

“No,” says Cecil, and his voice is startling in the dark. And he turns around and leaves the lab and goes back to bed where Carlos is sleeping sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging over the edge of the mattress, soft sleepy sounds coming from his open mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello, future listeners._

_I realize I haven’t spoken to you in a while. I apologize for that – really. It’s just, well, there hasn’t been much to talk about, you know? Unless you count another Erika burning out, or Miranda and Cerulean Jack_ finally _getting together, or…_

_I –_

_May I confide something in you, future listener?_

_It’s just – I’m worried about Carlos. He just seems so_ distant _, lately! But not in the “I-don’t-care-about-you” sort of way, more in the “I-worry-I’m-going-to-lose-you-forever-and-therefore-want-to-separate-myself-from-emotional-trauma-as-early-as-possible” sort of way! At least, I_ think _that’s what it is. I can’t tell for sure. I promised Carlos that I would never use my sixth sense to find out anything about him that he wouldn’t want to tell me. It’s very important to establish boundaries and intimacy levels in a relationship, you know. At least, that’s what they tell me._

_Anyway…_

_…_

_You know, future listener, I – I don’t feel much like talking, after all. Maybe some other time._

 

\--

 

It is, predictably, Joel Williams who loses control first.

“No!” he shouts, gesturing with a machete. “I’ve had it! I’ve had enough! He’s contaminated and a danger to us all, and if we weren’t all being so damn sentimental you’d see that and get him out of the way!”

Carlos is standing in front of Cecil, so Cecil cannot see his face, but he can read the tension in Carlos’ shoulders and clenched fingers and the hand that twitches towards his own knife just as easily. The rest of Carlos, however, is very, very still.

“Don’t talk like that,” says Carlos. His voice is quiet and flat. “Or I will make you regret it.”

“This isn’t about me, okay?” Joel William’s jaw juts out aggressively, and he shifts from foot to foot. “This is about the good of the community!”

The rest of the community surrounds them vaguely, leaning against the walls and counters of the lab. Old Woman Josie is the closest to Cecil besides Carlos, and he can feel her simmering with rage. Dana on his other side is just as ready to fight as Carlos is. Pamela Winchell and Cerulean Jack flank Joel Williams like an accusation mark, while Miranda hovers to the side.

Cecil finds himself remarkably detached from the experience, like he is watching it on a screen.

“I mean, I gave you the benefit of the doubt.” Joel has very expressive eyebrows; they go up and then down and then turn up a tiny bit over the inner corners of his eyes. “I thought, sure, maybe we’ll find a cure. It’s not fucking likely, but sure, miracles happen! But you know what, I waited, and I waited, and we’re no closer to finding a cure than we were six weeks ago and he’s going to start turning and I am not going to sit around and wait for that to happen!”

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” says Carlos. His voice is still very calm, and very quiet, and very even. “You’re going to drop the knife, and you’re going to walk away, and you’re not going to touch a hair on Cecil’s head.”

The day had been unexceptional until Cecil walked into the lab and found Joel Williams pointing a Bowie knife at his throat. Cecil hadn’t even flinched, just kind of looked blankly at Joel until Carlos came barreling over and shoved Cecil out of the way and Cerulean Jack pulled Joel back. It wasn’t that Cecil didn’t care about what was happening, he just couldn’t find a way to express it.

When Joel brandishes the knife at Carlos, however, Cecil feels the first warning twinge of rage in his gut. “No,” says Joel. “No. No way. I’m not going to let your – your _sentimentality_ get in the way of everyone’s safety –”

“No one’s safety is at risk right now.”

“You wanna bet?” Joel is getting more and more agitated, rocking from side to side –

“I’m not a gambling man.”

“Oh yeah? Because you’re taking one hell of a gamble on your boyfriend right now –”

“Am I?”

“Yeah, you are, you scientific _prick_ , and I’m not going to let you do that!”

Cecil knows exactly one-sixteenth of a second before Joel lunges that he will do that, and one-eighteenth of a second after Joel lunges that his knife is headed directly towards Carlos’ vital regions.

Anger explodes inside him with a searing crackle of static energy and Cecil shoves Carlos out of the way, throws his hands out and Joel who is a second away from stabbing him is flung back with a crack like lightning and all the lights in the lab flicker black-white and short out.

Joel is sprawled on the floor on his back, motionless; Cecil stares down at him, electricity crackling in his fingertips. The lab is very quiet except for the sound of people’s breathing and the steady growling at the back of Cecil’s throat.

He hadn’t realized he was growling. He stops, and lowers his upper lip back over his teeth as well.

“Cecil…” Carlos is getting to his feet; when he puts a hand on Cecil’s arm Cecil feels the snap of static shock.

“I’m fine.” He is. He feels more alive than he has in days.

Pamela Winchell is kneeling by Joel. “He’s out cold,” she says.

Cecil shrugs, unrepentant. He has a feeling he wouldn’t mind even if he’d killed Joel.

Maybe some of that is showing on his face, because everyone is watching him with varying degrees of caution, eyes wide in the dark. They shouldn’t, Cecil thinks, this isn’t the first time he’s reacted like this before, he’s had much worse outbursts – and then he remembers the results of those outbursts and yeah, he can kind of understand why everyone is keeping their distance right now.

Carlos puts a hand on his arm again, starts trying to draw him back. “Cecil… come on, Cecil, let’s go.”

“Yeah.” Now that the energy is fading Cecil can feel himself beginning to tremble; Joel is still motionless, Pamela and Cerulean Jack both crouched over him now. “Yeah, okay.”

His arm hurts.

 

\--

 

Cecil has not been to the NVCR station since… well, since it became clear that the power was off, and would always be off, and there was no one left to listen to their radios anyway. He’d given one last pat to Khoshekh, slowly and methodically straightened everything on his desk, and stepped outside. Then he’d chained the doors shut and walked to where Carlos waited in the Jeep and that was it. It had felt like a death, except worse, because no one had actually died.

He’s not sure why, but at some point he decides he needs to go back. Just once, before…

“Are you busy?” Cecil asks Carlos.

Carlos looks up from the flashlight he is fixing; ever since the project with the zombie failed and it became clear a cure was impossible, Carlos has given up science. Cecil worries about this as well, but he has no idea what to do.

“Nah,” says Carlos, turning around and looking up at Cecil. There are deep circles under his eyes. “Why?”

“I was thinking, I want to go back to the radio station. Just to see it, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Carlos’ voice is strangely soft, and he stands up immediately. “I’ll go get the car.”

“Thanks.” The distance between them is strange; they are close enough to reach out and hold hands, but they don’t. And the distance stays, in the car, and Carlos doesn’t talk and Cecil, who knows he would normally try to fill the silence with chatter about something, anything, cannot bring himself to speak. Not until they park in front of the station, Carlos shifting into park with a _ca-chunk_ of gears, does Cecil really feel like he should say something.

“I wonder how Khoshekh’s doing,” he says. For a while Simone Rigadeau and Big Rico’s great-great-grandson had been taking it in turns to feed him, but then Simone had been turned and Big Rico’s great-great-grandson left with Tamika Flynn and the rest of the children.

“He’s probably fine,” says Carlos, getting out of the car. “Remember when Simone came in and found he’d eaten half of a zombie?”

“Hehehe, yeah.” Cecil follows Carlos up to the door. “Yeah…”

The doors are still chained shut, the galvanized steel links relatively unsullied. There is a crusted spatter of something organic and unpleasant on the doors.

“Well,” says Cecil, and he takes out the key and unlocks the padlock, and pulls the chain away with a heavy clinking. He unlocks the door as well, and tries to pull it open. It sticks.

“Here.” Carlos grabs the handle, gives it a sharp tug, and yanks the door open on stiff hinges. The wave of fetid air that rushes out is overpowering.

“God –” chokes Carlos, pulling his bandanna over his mouth, “– what – what _is_ that –”

It smells of concentrated flesh rot and Cecil knows he should mind but he doesn’t, he just doesn’t. “Something’s dead in there.”

“Yeah, no shit,” says Carlos, and pulls the door open more. “Jesus Christ…”

They wait for some of the smell to clear out; Cecil can feel the sun on his shoulders and scalp, burning-hot. The same sun is shining bright on Carlos, bringing out reddish-brown highlights in his hair, glistening on his skin. He is sweating slightly, and there are fine lines around his eyes and mouth that Cecil doesn’t know if he’s seen before but he loves them all the same, because they are part of Carlos and he loves Carlos. But the light hurts Cecil’s eyes, and his zombie bite has been smarting painfully for hours.

“Well, it’s tolerable now,” says Carlos. “Want to go in?”

“Yeah.” Cecil follows him inside into the merciful cool and dark. The stench is just as strong indoors, and very clearly coming from the bathrooms. “Oh, I hope that’s not Khoshekh…”

“If Khoshekh died we’d probably smell… I dunno, tar and eldritch metal or something,” says Carlos. “Not meat.”

By the time they get to the bathroom Cecil’s eyes are watering, and Carlos has to hold a hand over his mouth and nose. “That is _foul_ ,” he manages.

Cecil does not want to actually touch the door; he can’t move it with his extra abilities but somehow keeping the static crackle in his fingers makes him feel protected, like he is burning contagion on contact. The door swings open much easier than the entrance, and…

There is Khoshekh, alive and well, floating over his sink. He is curled in a sleepy ball, back spines pulsating slightly. Beneath him is a pile of various body parts in different stages of decay, and the blood spatters everywhere are… everywhere. The sunlight shining through a missing chunk of the wall is painfully bright.

“Well, I think Khoshekh’s doing all right,” says Cecil in a strangled voice, backing out. “At least he’s keeping himself fed.”

“More zombies?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where he’s getting them from, but he is most definitely finding them and eating them.”

“Well, good to know he’s not starving,” says Carlos, and moves back down the hallway. “Hey, what happened to Station Management?”

Cecil shrugs. One day they were there, and then one day they weren’t. “Their office is _really_ boring. There’s nothing in there.”

“Pity, I wanted to see…” Carlos stops outside of the recording studio and looks at Cecil, and it is this look that makes Cecil stop in his tracks because it is anxious and tender and apprehensive and sweetly painfully concerned and he doesn’t know he’s going to do this, he doesn’t know how he’s going to contain the love that surges up inside him so forcefully it pushes tears into his eyes. “Do you want to go in?”

“Yeah.” Cecil clears his throat and moves to stand next to Carlos. “Yeah, yeah, I do.”

Carlos opens the door for him.

The studio is… still, everything left where Cecil placed it. The only thing moving is motes of dust dancing in a sunbeam, and it smells clean and stale. But it looks _right._ It is still home, and a warm bubble swells inside Cecil’s chest.

“I thought it’d be sad,” he marvels, stepping forward, trailing a finger through the dust on the desk. “I thought I’d be sad to be back.”

Carlos is leaning against the door frame, arms folded. “But you’re not?”

“No.” Cecil caresses the microphone, turns to Carlos with what feels like his first smile in months. “No, I’m not.”

Carlos smiles as well, but it is a weary one. “I’m glad you are.”

It is that distance again, and Cecil does not like it at all. He sits on the table and holds a hand out to Carlos. “Come here.”

With a wry smile, Carlos obeys and takes his hand; Cecil pulls him close and gains possession of his other hand as well. “Hey,” says Carlos. On the other side of the room, the door swings shut with a click.

“Hey,” and Cecil kisses him, and it is sweet and gentle but Carlos is still passive, still holding back, and Cecil understands why he is but he really doesn’t want that, he wants them to forget if only for half an hour, he wants Carlos to be _happy_ –

Hooking his fingers in Carlos’ belt loops, he pulls Carlos flush against him and kisses him with more force and Carlos kisses him back, hands resting on Cecil’s thighs. Cecil works his hands around to press against the small of Carlos’ back, parts his lips and _kisses_ –

“Cecil –” murmurs Carlos –

“Don’t,” says Cecil, because he can’t, he can’t hear one more excuse, he can’t have Carlos back out one more time, not now, and he wraps his legs around Carlos’ and kisses him again –

Carlos kisses him back but he is trying to pull away, Cecil can feel it. So Cecil tightens his grip with his legs and cups Carlos’ face in his hands and looks him right in his amber-chocolate eyes. “What is it?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

The corners of Carlos’ mouth are pulled down unhappily. “You know what…”

“No, I don’t,” Cecil says, “because for now we are pretending it doesn’t exist, we are going to be happy for now, there are no zombies, nothing is wrong, because I have you and you have me –”

Carlos is trembling slightly. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Please…” Confident Carlos will not leave, Cecil runs his hands down Carlos’ chest, slides them up under his shirt, presses his hands to Carlos’ skin. With a sigh, Carlos tips his head so his forehead is resting against Cecil’s. “Please,” breathes Cecil, and Carlos’ inhale is shaky. “Please, for me –”

He is cut off by Carlos seizing his face in his hands and _kissing_ him, lips parting, body so tight against his that Cecil can feel the buttons on his shirt pressing into his stomach. Cecil grunts and responds in kind, legs twined around Carlos’ waist and hands clutching at Carlos’ back, at his perfect warm solidity –

Carlos breaks away but it is only to press his lips down Cecil’s neck, nipping slightly at his skin, and Cecil swallows hard and tips his head forward and the little noise he blurts out is highly undignified. Carlos’ chuckle is low and throaty and sends a shiver of delight down Cecil’s spine. “You do marvelous things with your voice, you know that?” Carlos says.

“You help _ohhhhh._ ” That is most definitely Carlos’ tongue running up his neck –

Weight still pressed against him, Carlos swoops his hands down Cecil’s back to grab two handfuls of ass and bites down on Cecil’s neck, pulling the skin, and Cecil can feel that all the way down in his nether regions. He growls and clutches Carlos to him and there are too many layers between them, too many –

Carlos’ shirt falls in a pile at their feet and Cecil’s own tunic is scrunched up against his chest, Carlos’ stomach pressed warm against his. Carlos kisses Cecil feverishly, tugs on Cecil’s shirt and Cecil lifts his arms obediently, but the movement makes his wound twinge sharply and he winces –

“Cecil?”

“ ‘M fine.”

“Cecil –”

“It’s my arm but don’t stop, Carlos, please –”

And Carlos divests him of his shirt and pulls Cecil against him, their lips melded together, Carlos’ hand rough at the back of Cecil’s neck, and Cecil grinds his hips against Carlos’ and he is aching and hot and tight and hungry –

Carlos’ tongue presses against Cecil’s lips and Cecil opens his mouth, slides his tongue over Carlos’ and he wants Carlos to fill all his empty spaces, he needs him, they are kissing warm, wet, and wonderful, and Carlos’ fingers dig into the small of Cecil’s back before sliding around his hips and tugging on the front of Cecil’s pants. Cecil obliges, lifting his hips off the desk, pressing himself against Carlos to gain the proper leverage. When he sits back down, fingers tangled in the rich curls of Carlos’ hair and Carlos’ mouth hot and heavy on his, the table is cool against his naked skin.

Panting, Carlos kisses openmouthed and sloppy down Cecil’s neck again, and Cecil fumbles to unzip Carlos’ jeans. Carlos groans when bare skin rubs against bare tender skin and clutches Cecil against him, and Cecil presses so close not an atom could fit between them, so close their body heat is welding them together, Carlos rocks against him, Cecil is throbbing with energy that pulses in his groin, his fingers, his chest, and it is clean of static, pure from electric crackle. Carlos is everywhere, his heat, his touch, his taste, and words spill out of Cecil, I love you, I love you, oh God, Carlos, I love you –

He comes white-hot and dizzying, and when it ebbs he curls soft and boneless around Carlos, sweat cooling on his back. Carlos exhales slowly, presses gentle clumsy kisses down Cecil’s cheekbone and nestles his head on Cecil’s shoulder.

“You know…” says Carlos slowly, “I’d fantasized about this, actually.”

“Really?” says Cecil, tracing aimless fingers down Carlos’ spine, his mind pleasantly blank. “Which part?”

“About… having sex here. In the recording booth.” Carlos shifts to a more comfortable position, kisses Cecil’s collarbone. “Admittedly, that fantasy also included you being on air at the time, but…”

“Oh.” Resting his cheek on Carlos’ hair, Cecil considers this – and the idea of Carlos here, kneeling between his legs while Cecil struggles to deliver the news as usual pulls a pleasantly tight knot in his stomach. “You should have told me before, I would have…obliged.”

Carlos shrugs. “I was going to, but then, everything that happened…happened.”

“Yeah.” Carlos smells wonderfully of sweat and sex, and Cecil nuzzles his cheek. “At least we got this, though.”

Carlos’ breath catches for a second, and then his arms tighten around Cecil; Cecil returns the embrace, once again aware that the wound on his arm is aching. “Yeah.”


	6. Chapter 6

An Erika heals Cecil’s arm again, cradling it in xir obsidian palm and crouching low over it, Old Woman Josie stands by and watches, leaning on her walker. “I remember your family,” she says.

“So do I,” says Cecil. He doesn’t, actually. He remembers his mother, but all he recalls of his father is the taste of charcoal and an unblinking gaze, and if he had a brother he has no memories of him at all.

“First time I met them, was in the supermarket,” she says. “You were there too. I came round the corner and there you were, sitting on the floor and sniffling. Little kid, couldn’t have been more than six, with big glasses and hair whiter than wonderbread. I asked you what was wrong, you said you couldn’t find your mom. I took your hand and lead you over to find the manager and paged the store to find your parents. Turns out they’d left the store without you and were halfway home by the time we called them and got them to turn back. Don’t know when they’d have noticed otherwise.”

Violet light flares around Cecil’s arm and he winces. He does not remember anything of this either, or at least, he does not think he does.

“And right then,” continues Josie, the purple shining off of her thick lenses, “I swore I would watch over you, long as I was able.”

Erika lets go of Cecil’s arm and he draws it back, the skin around the wound red and inflamed. The puncture marks themselves are swollen shut, and throbbing. Josie cranes her neck to look at them – she only comes up to Cecil’s elbow – and presses her wrinkled lips together. “Guess I did a great job at that,” she says.

Not until the very last word does her voice shake, and then just a little, but Cecil hears it all the same, and a great sad howling thing wells up inside him. He wants to say something, but is afraid if he opens his mouth it will all come spilling out, so he simply lays a hand on her shoulder instead.

 

\--

 

Cecil curls himself around Carlos, trying to absorb as much of his naked warmth as possible. Pulling the blankets over them, Carlos holds him close, almost cradling him, and kisses his temple. “How’re you feeling?”

“Good,” purrs Cecil, and he is, still riding the trail of endorphins. He snuggles closer to Carlos, trying to delay the inevitable ebbing of his emotions. “You?”

“I feel great.” Carlos combs his fingers through Cecil’s hair, flicks the strands that come loose onto the floor.

“ ‘S good.” Pleasantly exhausted as he is, Cecil thinks he can get one, maybe two hours’ sleep…

“Have you thought about what you want to do when… later on, when it’s closer to… the end?” asks Carlos.

Cecil has not thought about this. Cecil does not want to think about this. “No.”

“I’m sorry.” Carlos sighs, chest falling under Cecil. It is dark in their room, too dark for Cecil to see – he knows Carlos by his warmth and his breathing and the smooth rounded shapes he makes against Cecil’s sixth sense. “It’s just…we need to talk about it.”

“I know…”

Carlos strokes a slow hand down Cecil’s spine. “I was thinking, we could leave… we wouldn’t have to stay here…”

That sounds surprisingly appealing. “Where would we go?”

“Anywhere you want.”

“I don’t want to leave Night Vale.” He doesn’t. He’s lost enough of himself already.

“Okay.” Carlos’ voice is as gentle as his hands. “Where in Night Vale? We could go to the duplex –”

“No.” Cecil is firm about this. Up until very (very) recently, all his memories there are happy ones. He does not want them tainted.

“There’s plenty of others besides ours –”

“Carlos, I don’t really care, as long as I’m with you.”

Carlos’ arm tightens around Cecil’s shoulders, and he presses a kiss to Cecil’s forehead. “Okay,” he says again, softly. “I’ll pick somewhere then.”

All warmth and happiness is seeping out of Cecil. “I’m going to try and sleep.”

“All right.” Carlos’ fingers play gently on the back of Cecil’s neck; sighing, Cecil closes his eyes and tries to slip into forgetful oblivion.

 

\--

 

Though Cecil gains a temporary reprieve from Erika, within a day his wound has reopened, leaking an unpleasant orange fluid. Carlos disinfects it and wraps it up and offers Cecil ibuprofen from the emergency supply chest, which Cecil declines. He doesn’t need painkillers, not yet.

Two days later, Cecil is woken from sleep by a stabbing pain in his left forearm.

Carlos lies sprawled on his stomach beside him, one arm wrapped loosely around Cecil. Biting back a whimper, Cecil presses himself against Carlos and closes his eyes, hoping the pain will recede soon.

It doesn’t.

Cecil holds out as long as he can, but by the time his eyes are watering and he has to drive his fingernails into his palms to keep from crying out, he acknowledges it might be time to wake Carlos.

“Carlos,” he whispers, and his voice cracks. “Carlos.”

Carlos mumbles something in his sleep and shifts slightly. A sudden wave of pain forces Cecil to wince and grit his teeth before speaking again. “ _Carlos_.”

Groaning, Carlos raises his head. “Whu?”

His arm burns again, and this time Cecil can’t hold back a moan. “Carlos, please, it really hurts…”

This gets Carlos’ attention; pushing himself up, he brushes his hair out of his eyes and frowns at Cecil. “Your arm?”

Cecil nods, jaw tight.

Reaching over Cecil, Carlos switches on the light, and Cecil squints at the sudden brightness. “Let’s see,” says Carlos, sitting up.

Obediently, Cecil holds out his arm, although he is this close to actual tears from the hurt of it. When Carlos starts to untie the bandage, even that change in pressure is enough to make Cecil choke on a cry of pain. Carlos’ frown deepens worriedly, but when he slides the bandage off his expression gets downright foreboding.

Cecil avoids looking at his arm, though he can smell something acrid and sour. “What is it?”

“I’m going to get some ice, okay?” says Carlos. “Be right back.”

He kisses Cecil on the forehead and slides out of bed, boxers scrunched up around his thighs. Cecil, who is trembling with the effort of not crying out, lets his head fall back with a groan as soon as the door is closed. His arm now hurts so badly that it is difficult to think of anything else. Though he is afraid to look at it, he is also sickeningly curious, and soon the fierce burning demands that he do nothing else.

Swallowing hard, Cecil turns his head and looks down at his arm.

The first thing he sees is red. Vivid, swollen, inflamed red, the entire area around the bite scarlet with infection, skin painfully taught. The bite itself has reopened, ragged edges crusty with bloody pus, and more of the same is oozing from the punctures. In some places his skin looks almost green.

If he were in less pain, Cecil thinks, he might be more bothered by how it looks.

His arm is burning like a million fire ants stung it, and Cecil presses a hand to his mouth to keep himself from whimpering again. But it hurts, it really hurts, he can’t stand it –

“Here.” Carlos has returned with an icepack wrapped in a towel. “Careful, it’s cold –”

Cecil can’t even think of a smart retort, and when the chilly bundle touches his arm the pressure and difference in temperature is enough to make him yelp.

“Jesus, Cecil, I’m sorry –” Carlos tries to apply the ice again, even more delicately, but Cecil whimpers and jerks away involuntarily. “I just want to get the swelling down, it’ll hurt less then, I promise –”

“I know,” says Cecil through gritted teeth, and he breathes through his nose and forces himself to lie still as Carlos ices his arm. But it is _extraordinarily_ painful, and he finds himself with a heaving chest and a thin helpless whine on every exhale –

“Shh, Cecil, shh, it’s okay –” Carlos’ hands are cool on Cecil’s face as he tries to soothe him but Cecil can’t help it, it hurts too much, he can’t keep quiet any more –

He’s nearly sobbing when someone he dimly recognizes as Intern Dana bursts in, shadowed by Erika. “Carlos, what’s going _on –_ ”

“The bite, it’s infected, just watch him, I’ve got to go get the painkillers –”

Before Cecil can even protest Carlos’ absence he is gone, rushing out again, and Dana’s small and callused hand wraps around his. “Cecil?” she says.

Another wave of agony makes him whimper and clutch her hand so tightly she gasps. With a flash of weird light and a sound like a camera shutter, Erika disappears. Cecil really couldn’t care less, if xe’s not going to help then xe might as well just leave – Dana pats his hand and says unhelpful things like “it’s all right” and “it’s going to be okay.”

Carlos returns, panting, with a water bottle and pills in a cupped hand. “Prop him up,” he says, and sits next to Cecil. With their help Cecil groans and sits up; swallowing the pill is almost impossible but Cecil manages it through sheer desperation.

“Easy there, easy there,” says Carlos, laying Cecil back down, and Cecil’s eyes are squeezed shut and full of hot tears because it hurts, it hurts so bad, and he is making all sorts of pained helpless noises but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care anymore, make it go away, make it _stop_ –

He keeps waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in, for the pain to go away but it _doesn’t_ , it just keeps getting worse and worse, and Cecil cries out and clings hard to whatever he can (Carlos’ hands? are these Carlos’ hands?) and Carlos is begging Dana to see if they have any morphine, look again, maybe there’s some _somewhere_ , please, and before he can help it Cecil is screaming, raw and shallow, and he wants to stop but he can’t, he wants it to stop but it doesn’t, it hurts, it hurts, Carlos is bending over him, saying things frantically but Cecil can’t understand the words, all he knows the fire in his arm, he can’t see, he can’t hear, he is screaming –

Carlos has one hand on Cecil’s shoulder, pinning him down, and there are other people in the room, he can sense them, human and almost human and tall black multiforms with wings and eyes and holy light, and then other hands hold him to the mattress as well and a multiform bends over him, strange and angular, and _IT HURTS, IT HURTS_ , his arm is in agony, his arm is on fire, Cecil screams and chokes and sobs he’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to die… It goes on and on, to the point where he doesn’t have the strength to cry out any more and he is sure he’s going to pass out but unfortunately he doesn’t, he is in some agonizing state of flux where the only thing he can be conscious of his how much pain he’s in…

Later, much later (what feels like hours later), Cecil realizes the pain has begun receding. At first he’s not sure, he’s just imagining it, it’s a trick of his mind… but it grows less, and less, fading imperceptibly, and he can breathe easier, and Carlos is cradling him in his arms.

“It’s okay,” Carlos is saying, brushing sweaty hair out of Cecil’s face, “it’s okay, it’ll be over, I’ve got you…”

Cecil whines weakly and he sounds pathetic but he doesn’t really care, he is utterly spent, drenched in sweat, arm still burning though no longer nearly as fiercely. Everyone else has left the room, although a faint buzzing in the corner of his mind makes him think an angel is hovering nearby, just around the corner.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Carlos, palm curved rough against Cecil’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Cecil, I’m so sorry, oh God…”

Cecil doesn’t know what Carlos is apologizing for, unless this pain was his fault and it’s not, Cecil is muzzily sure that even in the infinitude of multiverses there is not one where Carlos would intentionally hurt him. He wants to say this, but all that comes out is “…s’okay.”

With a sound like a groan, Carlos presses his forehead to Cecil’s. The pain is receding more and more, it is almost ignorable now. Eyes closed, Cecil lies still and listens to Carlos’ breathing, his thudding heart, and the sound of thriving organic machinery is inexplicably comforting.

He remembers the angel, and people pinning him to the mattress. “Something happened with m’arm…”

“Yeah.” Carlos clears his throat, straightens up a bit. “Yeah, Erika came in and… well, I’m not really sure what xe did to your arm, I can’t look at it properly… I mean, if I see it in the corner of my eye or my peripheral vision it appears normal, but if I look at it directly my eyes just sort of slide off. Anyway, the wound’s gone, so that shouldn’t hurt any more. Unfortunately the virus is still in your system, I had Dana run a test…” Cecil doesn’t try to actually understand what he’s saying, just listens to Carlos’ voice and tries to fit himself in every syllable. “How does your arm feel?”

It takes Cecil a second to realize he needs to answer. “Feels better. Doesn’t hurt as much.”

“Thank God…”

Cecil’s arm is merely tingling now, and he is exhausted to the point of haziness… Dimly, he feels Carlos laying him back down and settling on the bed beside him. Nestling close to Carlos’ warmth, Cecil exhales slowly and feels Carlos’ arm gently wrap around him… The last thing Cecil hears before he falls asleep is Carlos saying "It's all right, I've got you. It's all right."

And for a moment, Cecil actually believes him.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hello, future listener._

_I feel I must confess something to you. I – I have not been completely honest regarding my situation here in Night Vale._

_The truth of the matter is – or at least, as much truth as there can be in a world of subjectivity and biased experience – is that two months ago, I was bitten by a zombie. Which one would naturally and correctly assume to be an unfortunate event. But as a result of this, I now face the process of turning into a zombie myself. Indeed, I fear it has already begun. Carlos, you know, Carlos the scientist, Carlos my boyfriend, worked long and hard to find a cure, but…_

_I don’t want to leave him._

_I don’t._

_I really don’t._

_And maybe part of me hopes that when I go my atoms will be dispersed among the universe and return here, to become part of Night Vale and dance around him again. But…when I think of death, all there is is void. Emptiness. Nothingness. Even with my abilities, I can’t see anything else._

_I asked Erika about heaven once, and if people could get into it. I woke up three hours later with glowing palms and the inability to communicate in anything other than song for the next several days._

_Anyway, I… I know there’s more to the universe than even I can see. So maybe I can’t know,_ for sure _, what’s out there, but… I can hope._

_To be quite honest, I’m not used to hoping. Not lately._

_But I’ll try anyway._

\--

 

It begins.

Cecil notices when he starts stumbling into tables and doors, and when he doesn’t feel the bruises that form. He notices when his handwriting gets big and clumsy like a child’s. He notices when he combs his hair in the morning and strand after strand of long white hair is pulled out. He notices the sores that have started forming on his knees and elbows.

Carlos notices too, but doesn’t say anything.

Everything tastes like cardboard. Baked beans, rice crackers, even the canned peaches Carlos coaxes him into eating. Cerulean Jack and Joel return from a hunting expedition with a scrawny doe, however, and it takes all of Cecil’s self-control not to raid the freezer for the uncooked steaks.

He confides this to Carlos, late at night in a small voice, and Carlos asks him if he wants to leave tomorrow. Cecil agrees.

Everyone gathers to say goodbye, even Joel Williams, and it is like no one is sure how sad they are allowed to be. Dana hugs Cecil with tears streaming down her face. Old Woman Josie grips his hand like iron and presses it to her forehead. Cerulean Jack, who doesn’t like touching people, even gives him a cautious embrace. They all say the same thing, I’m sorry, Cecil, we’ll miss you, thank you for everything.

At least, that is what Cecil assumes they are saying. Half the time, he can’t make out the words.

Carlos takes his hand and leads him outside, helping him into the front seat of the Jeep, buckling his seatbelt for him after Cecil tries and fails twice. The place he drives them out to is an apartment complex, not their duplex but nice, on the other side of town. Carlos has chosen a room on the bottom floor, and when Cecil walks in he realizes that it is cleaner than it should be, and therefore Carlos has been by earlier to straighten it up.

“Is this okay?” asks Carlos, setting their duffel bags down on the floor.

Cecil nods. Moving over to Carlos, he pulls him close and presses his face into the side of his neck. With a sigh, Carlos wraps his arms around Cecil and holds him tight. “Oh, Cecil…”

He does not let go.

 

\--

 

They sleep in one bed, on the patio. It is warm enough that they only need one blanket, Carlos says, as Cecil can no longer feel differences in temperature at all. But he spends his nights curled as close around Carlos as possible, begrudging even the tiniest space between them. He no longer sleeps, but instead listens to the sound of Carlos’ even breathing and counts the stars.

And one night, as he looks up at the sky, he sees lights that move, bright and faintly colored, and he knows them, vaguely. Arby’s, Cecil thinks, and a parking lot, and a hand on his knee. He remembers that. He doesn’t know from where, or why, but he remembers it.

Cecil closes his eyes.

 

\--

 

He wakes up. The sun is bright, blindingly so. All he feels is hunger, a ravenous longing for the warm tender richness of viscera. The desire is so strong that it pulls him to his feet despite the stinging sunlight and his aching limbs. He is stiff, rigid; he cannot move faster than a urgent shuffle. He moans in hunger and frustration.

He scents meat. Turning, he looks around and sees a man, standing and watching him. The man carries a rifle and wears a long white coat. He smells enticingly of warmth and blood.

He lurches towards him. The man raises his rifle to his shoulder and points it at him. His cheeks are wet.

The man has beautiful hair –


End file.
